


A Signal Of Hope

by LananiA3O



Series: Batfam Week - Arkham-verse [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: Arkham Knight Spoilers, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, PTSD, Smoking, Swearing, Timeskips, Wayne Gala, Wayne Manor, off-screen death of minor characters, post arkham knight, referenced child prostitution, smol Bruce, very minor OCs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 20:33:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11192871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LananiA3O/pseuds/LananiA3O
Summary: None of the Robins had ever liked the galas held at the manor, but while their own experiences before during and after the event may have been as different the boys were from each other in general, one thing Bruce knew for sure: he would always, always be there to defend his sons from the vultures of this world.





	A Signal Of Hope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Some1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some1/gifts).



> Aka “the time-skipping chapter in which we see that even Arkham!Bruce is not always a total jerk to his kids and that he really is trying”. Written in the most distant tense I could think of, because even when he is legitimately trying to be nice, I still picture Bruce to be somewhat of an ice block.  
> Gifted to Some1, who has been an amazing reviewer and an irreplaceable help in learning how to tag my stuff properly for several months now. You always empathized with Bruce in my stories, so I think it is only fitting you shall receive a story in which he finally gets it right :)

Some things just ran in the family.

Bruce remembered his first Wayne Gala as if it had been yesterday, even though it had been thirty-four years ago. He had been six and despite the pains his mother had gone through to prepare him for the event – hours and hours of etiquette lessons, smaller events at the manor in regular intervals, visits to galas of other members of Gotham’s high society – he had felt too far out of his depth to be anywhere near comfortable.

At first he had thought there had been too many people and who would have blamed him? The ball room was packed, the gardens cramped. He had contemplated escaping to the library, but even in there no solace could be found. The studies had been off limits for the night, as had been the attic, the bedrooms, and the cellar. His father had said so and Bruce had learned a long time ago not to question his father’s rules. They weren’t many, but each of them had its design, its purpose, and he would have felt like dirt if he had ignored them. Father deserved better. He had contemplated escaping to the drawing room on the first floor. He had even swallowed his anxiety towards the cold, harsh light of the armory, but in the end, even those two rooms had been crowded.

He had been listening to his mother talking to one of Gotham’s council members – Farbridge, if he remembered correctly – when he had finally realized that the simple number of people who were now flooding his home was not the issue.

The issue was the kinds of people that were now flooding his home, even if he could not pinpoint what ‘kind’ that actually was.

He couldn’t quite recall what his mother and Mr. Farbridge had been talking about, but he could recall, with disturbing clarity and attention to detail, the way he had constantly complimented her, smiled at her, inched closer to her and, eventually, reached just past her ear ‘to tuck back a stray strand of hair’.

Mother had no ‘stray strands of hair’. Not during a gala, Bruce knew that much. In the morning, when she had just gotten out of bed, mother’s hair had occasionally been a wild mess, but for a gala, for any kind of social event, her hair was always perfect – neat and proper to a T. There had been something strangely defensive and uncomfortable in the way mother had smiled at the councilman and thanked him for his kind gesture, before she had brushed her fingertips alongside her right temple, smoothing out more stray hairs that were not strays, while tapping her fingers lightly. A few moments later, his father had appeared by her side. Mr. Farbridge had shaken his hand and then promptly excused himself from the conversation.

Mother had sighed with relief. Bruce had held his tongue throughout the event, as was proper for the young heir of the Wayne title and fortune and of Wayne Enterprises. Later that night, after everyone had left, after all the lights had been doused and all the fountains switched off, after the darkness had crept into his room and Mr. Farbridge had turned into a hideous monster with tentacles for fingers in his dreams, Bruce had snuck down the hallway and crawled slowly into his parents’ bed, savoring the feeling of warmth and comfort and safety radiating from them.

Mother had always been a deep sleeper, but his father had woken up almost instantly. “Bruce? What is the matter? It’s—“ He had cast a long, hard look at the grandfather clock by the door. “It’s three in the morning, son.”

“I had a nightmare.” He had whispered then, careful not to wake his mother. It wasn’t likely that he would have, but he had not been willing to take any risks.

“What about?”

“Mr. Farbridge,” Bruce had admitted, his voice small and unsure. “I dreamt he was a monster with big, nasty, long tentacles and he was trying to hurt mommy.”

His father had seemed to mull that over for a second, before licking his lips quickly, like he usually did when he was about to say something the other party would not like. “You have always been a very perceptive child, Bruce.”

“Per-cep-tive?” He had never heard the word before and his father smiled at the slow imitation.

“Perceptive. Yes. It means noticing something really fast.”

He had put one and two together in his head and had quickly clasped a hand over his mouth to muffle the noise that came with the shock. “Mr. Farbridge actually is a monster?!”

His father had stifled a small laugh in the same manner. “Not literally, no. But people don’t have to be actual monsters to be monsters.”

Bruce had raised an eyebrow at that. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does, Bruce.” His father had hugged him closer, letting him rest his head against father’s strong shoulders, while stroking his hair. “Mr. Farbridge is a human being of flesh and blood, just like you and me, but he was trying to hurt mommy. He was trying to do something that made her uncomfortable. It wasn’t the first time. He does it a lot. That’s what makes him a monster. Like the wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

Bruce had nodded then – his mother had told him the story of the wolf in sheep’s clothing before – and suddenly it had all made sense. He hadn’t been bothered by the number of people in his home. He had been bothered by the fact that there were wolves in sheep skins among them and they had come to prey on his family, in their own home. The thought had made him strangely angry.

“If he does it a lot and if you knew he would, then why did you invite him, father? Why did you let him into our home?”

“Because he is a very influential man,” Thomas Wayne had admitted. “Mark my words, Bruce, because this is a very important lesson: you will meet many, many people in your life who are unforgivable monsters. People who lie and cheat and steal and even hurt other people. Most of them you will be able to keep away from you by sheer force. Some you may pay to leave you alone. But there will always be some who you will actually need. People who, for one reason or another, you cannot risk to make enemies of in public. You may tell them your sincere opinion behind closed doors, but in public you will need to act as if nothing had ever happened between you and them.”

“And Mr. Farbridge is one of those people?”

“Yes.”

Bruce had taken a moment to think it over. He had understood then what had happened between mother and Mr. Farbridge. He had understood – no, accepted – that what his father had told him was truth, but one thing had still troubled him.

“Father?”

“Yes, Bruce?”

“If Mr. Farbridge is a monster, then why are you not... you know... more worried about him?”

His father had smiled at him. That bright, strong smile that he always had when he assured someone that everything would be just fine. “Because monsters who walk around in sheep’s clothing are cowards by nature. The moment someone steps in to help you fight them off, they run like spooked horses.”

“But what if you hadn’t been there, in that moment?”

“I would always have been there,” his father had insisted, “... because your mother was calling for me. Not loudly, of course. That would have tipped off the wolf and it would have been rude to our other guests. She did it silently, with grace and subtlety. Did you see how?”

He hadn’t known the word ‘subtlety’ back then, either, but given that his father had just used it as a counterpart to ‘loudly’ he had assumed that it meant ‘quietly and without a fuss’. He had thought back to his mother’s reaction to Mr. Farbridge’s touch. The smile. The polite words. The hand running through her hair when there was no need for it.

“She touched her hair.”

“She touched her hair,” his father confirmed. “She ran her fingers along the right side of her head and tapped them slightly. It is a signal we agreed on long ago. It means ‘I need help’. People often brush their hands through their hair, so no one will think anything of it, but together with the tapping it becomes an unmistakable signal.”

Bruce had pondered that for a moment, then snuggled closer to his father. “If I am ever in trouble, can I use the signal to call you and mommy?”

His father had smiled at him gently and kissed his head, just like he always used to do every night before Bruce went to sleep. “Any time, my son. Any time.”

***

Any time had lasted for all of two years and had been ended by two bullets behind the Monarch Theater. There had been no Wayne Gala for the next ten years to follow, as there had been no one to organize the event. Bruce had been too young. Alfred had been to busy raising him in his parents’ stead, and Lucius had been too busy managing the juggernaut that was Wayne Enterprises to worry about something as trivial as a gala in honor of its founding.

Bruce had been eighteen years old and nearly done with high school when he had decided to revitalize the tradition. June 1st 1995 had been supposed to be a reconnection, a restoration of bonds that had faded and nearly disappeared over the years. Instead, it had ended up being the stark end to one life and the beginning of another.

Gotham’s elite had rejoiced at the idea of another Wayne Gala, of course, and not a single one of them had declined his invitation. The manor had been packed, choke full of fancy socialites in fancy clothes, who had taken great pains to tell him how wonderful it was to finally have the Wayne Gala again and how dull and bleak life in Gotham had been without it and how it was so good to see him socialize again after all the horror he had had to endure.

Bruce could only thank his mother’s, father’s, and Alfred’s excellent parenting and their etiquette lessons for the miracle that had somehow made him smile and laugh and maintain pleasant small talk throughout it all. In truth, he had come out of that night hating almost everyone in that ballroom.

What they had really meant with ‘wonderful to have the gala again’ was ‘I have been waiting for a chance to flaunt my wealth in front of the press for far too long’.

What they had really meant with ‘life in Gotham has been so bleak and dull’ was ‘I refuse to look at anything but the five-percent bubble of Gotham’s rich and famous because the rest of this city is disgusting’.

What they had really meant with ‘it is so good to see you socialize again’ was ‘here are my three young, attractive daughters – which one do you want to marry and how much of your fortune will be left to her in your will’.

The day after graduation, Bruce had packed his bags and left Gotham to start his long journey to ensure that no child in Gotham would ever need to lose their parents to the city’s criminal element ever again. And for another eight years, no Wayne Gala had been held.

This time, when he had eventually taken up the tradition again after returning to Gotham, he had not done it out of sentimental, wishful thinking. This time his reasons had been entirely professional: building and strengthening connections, gathering intel, and establishing the front of a billionaire playboy who had nothing better to do with his life than waste his families inheritance. And for those specific purposes, the gala had worked out just fine. Bruce had been satisfied with the road he had taken.

Until Dick had entered his life.

Looking at Dick had always been like looking into a strange mirror of his younger self. It hadn’t mattered that the boy had been nearly fifteen and thus almost twice as old as Bruce himself when his parents had been murdered. It hadn’t mattered that he hadn’t been born into old money. It hadn’t even mattered that he wasn’t from Gotham to begin with. There had been an aura of loss, of pain, emanating from him that had spoken to Bruce on a level so far below conscious thought, it had long since passed the realm of instinct and come out on the other side of his soul. As a consequence, he had expected his first attendance at the annual Wayne Gala to pass rather uneventfully and to be followed by some conversation or another about the reasoning behind the event.

He could not have been any more incorrect.

Dick had _loved_ the gala. Gone was the frustration he had demonstrated during the suit fitting ( _Alfred, I get that I need to look nice for this, but why do I have to wear this stupid suit? I feel like someone stuffed me into rolls of plastic!_ ) and gone were the endless questions ( _Bruce, no offense, but how come you never seem to be around after sundown? Bruce, don’t try to kid me – that cut wasn’t there yesterday. Bruce, would it kill you to smile every once in a while?_ ). The moment the music had started and the guests had arrived, Dick had been a changed young man, moving through the crowds with none of his usual childish acrobatics, and all the grace of a beautiful panther.

He had taken to the gala like a fish to water, naturally displaying a grace and ease that it had taken Bruce years to cultivate. He had talked to the men – wealthy men, influential and sometimes dangerous men – as if that was what he did all the time, keeping up stimulating conversation without wading an inch too deep into anyone’s personal space. He had charmed the women with his dashing smile, his perfect manners and his well-placed, subtle flattery. He had bonded quickly and easily with the other boys in attendance – few as they were – through easy jokes and perfectly feigned annoyance with the rigidity and formality of the festivities. He had dazzled the girls – there were a lot more of those, after all ‘Wayne’ was still the most powerful name in Gotham and even though Dick was still Richard John Grayson, Bruce knew that everyone upwards of the upper middle class was just waiting for him to officially adopt Dick as his son and rightful heir, thus increasing their chances of getting a share of the fortune pie by means of beautiful female relative – with his outgoing personality, his dashing looks and two very skilled feet on the dance floor.

Yes, Dick had done wonderfully during his first Wayne Gala. As the papers had so kindly pointed out later, not a single sign had been left of the traumatized youngster who had been so generously adopted by the Prince of Gotham. As a matter of fact, that night Dick had seemed like he deserved that title more than Bruce did, and every one of the reporters in attendance for the event had eventually had a crack at new royal titles for Gotham’s most eligible bachelor in the making. Everyone except Clark Kent from the Daily Planet, who had really only been sent there because Lex Luthor had attended as well and everyone in Metropolis wanted to know if there was soon to be a cooperation between the powerhouses Wayne Enterprises and Lex Corp. Alfred had found the titling attempts just as amusing as ridiculous.

_“You are the oldest, living member of the Wayne family, Master Bruce. If we are going to assume royal titles for such a role, that would make you the King of Gotham, not its prince. And even if we did – for some unfathomable reason – pretend that you are indeed only the Prince, that would still make Master Grayson a Prince as well. You would think the diligence of a journalist would at least reach far enough to have a basic understanding of royal blood lines.”_

All Bruce had been able to think upon his return to the manor just before sunrise – he had left as soon as the last guests had gone – was that their lack of understanding basic royal blood lines could only be matched by his lack of understanding of his ward, because the high bar of the basement gym was not exactly a suitable place for a prince of Gotham. Not at four in the morning.

“You are up early, Dick.”

“You are home late, Bruce,” Dick had lobbed back at him over another swing from one bar to the next. His movements had been perfect, as always, his focus sharp as a laser, and yet there had been an edge underneath the words that had proved that his mind hadn’t been one-hundred percent focused on not missing that next bar, on not ending up as a red splotch on the gym floor. Bruce had pushed his fatigue down into the dark pit where it belonged and had crossed the gym floor to the nearby bench with the barbells. Dick had spared him little more than two glances, before working his way backwards through the high bar course.

Usually, the fact that he had not picked up the barbells to start training by himself would have been enough to make Dick come over and try to talk to him, but that time, nothing of the sort had happened. Instead, Dick had continued his exercises, sweat building up on his brow as he went through the course again and again. Four minutes in, as Dick’s grip had started to get clumsier, Bruce had finally decided that enough was enough.

“Come here, Dick. I need to talk to you.”

Instead of finishing the course, Dick had simply dropped from the bar he had been swinging on, finding just enough time to tuck in a roll before landing on his two bare feet. The smile had been back on his face within a second, warm and easy-going as always at first glance, but Bruce had not been fooled. The smile had not reached his eyes.

“Something is bothering you, Dick.”

“Excuse me?” Dick had given him a slightly embarrassed laugh before reaching for one of the nearby water bottles that were placed throughout the room. “Maybe you should get some sleep, Bruce. I’m just fine.”

“You are not, Dick. Do _not_ lie to me!”

He had not meant to drop his voice so low. He had not meant to use the same tone he usually reserved for criminals, but perhaps Dick had been right. Perhaps he really had needed some sleep. Either way, Dick had frozen on the spot, before seemingly shrinking down to two inches as he had sat down in front of him, legs crossed and head hung low.

“This gala...” Dick had started flexing his fingers then, as if holding his hands still had suddenly become a crime. His eyes had been darting around the room wildly. “I’ve only been here for four months, so I’m sorry if this seems like a stupid question, but... are we going to have many more of those at the manor?”

“There is the Wayne Foundation Gala on New Year’s Eve,” Bruce had answered. “But I see no reason why we shouldn’t have more. Every gala is a chance to establish and nurture important networks, and promote a worthy cause. There used to be one every month, back when I was still a child.”

 _Back when my parents were still alive_ , was what he had been thinking, but the words had died en route to his tongue. Even now... even all those years later...

“I see.”

It was Dick’s tone more than his choice of words that had shaken Bruce out of his thoughts and dragged him back to the matter at hand. He had expected something along the lines of ‘that would be awesome’ or ‘I would love that’ or ‘great idea, let’s do it’, paired with enthusiastic excitement. Instead, what he had received was quiet acceptance, mingled with resignation and just a tiny pinch of dread. None of those were very Dick-Grayson-like and that in and of itself had set off all the alarm bells in his head.

“You don’t sound very happy, Dick. I thought you enjoyed tonight’s gala.”

“Well, I liked the party, alright,” Dick had answered over a shrug of his shoulders. “I mean I could have done with less talking and more dancing, but it wasn’t anywhere near as boring as I had expected it to be.”

“Then what is the problem?”

“The people.”

“The people?” Bruce had raised an eyebrow at him. “I remember you complaining about how empty the manor seems to be all the time.”

“It’s not the number of people, Bruce.” Dick had fixated his gaze on his hands rather than Bruce’s face then, an instinctive reaction to avoid confrontation and conflict, if Bruce had ever seen one. His voice had come out as little more than a whisper. “It’s the kind of people.”

The memories had come back to Bruce with aching clarity then. The night Mr. Farbridge had tried to accost his mother. The conversation he had had with his father. Wolves in sheep’s clothing. He pushed it all down together with his brain’s attempts to filter through every snapshot memory of the times he had seen Dick interact with anyone at the party that night. “Explain.”

Dick had taken a deep breath before fiddling with his hands some more, while gazing longingly at the door to the stairs. “There is this story my mother used to tell me,” Dick had begun. “About a man who once bought a beautiful parrot, which he kept in a tiny, golden cage. The man would parade the pretty, colorful bird in front of everyone he knew and they would all marvel at his pretty feathers and praise his entertaining chattering and singing, but as soon as he stopped and went silent, people would turn and whisper behind the man’s back. ‘Parrots are loud’, they would say. ‘And they stink and they bite and they make such a mess!’ And so no one ever talked to the parrot, except when they wanted entertainment, and the parrot remained stuck in his golden cage. A beautiful cage, but a cage made of lies, nonetheless.”

“It was not my intention to parade you around in front of anyone, Dick.”

Dick had laughed at that, but it hadn’t been his usual, cheerful laugh. It had been darker somehow. Darker and more... hysterical... like he hadn’t been taking him seriously at all. “I know, Bruce, but you didn’t have to and that’s the problem.” When Bruce had looked at him in fresh confusion, Dick had answered with a deep sigh. “You know who I am Bruce. You know _what_ I am. It was all over the papers when you first took me in.”

 _You are part Romani_ , Bruce had thought to himself. Of course he hadn’t forgotten about that, and Dick had been right: the press had had a field day with the discovery of the decidedly un-English true first name of Dick’s father. The fact that Dick had not spent a single day living by Romani traditions or culture had not mattered of course. For roughly two weeks, all the papers had been talking about was how billionaire Bruce Wayne, the Prince of Gotham, had taken in a _gypsy_ _carnie,_ of all things. The memory of the articles had been just as efficient in making his anger rise right then and there as the lines themselves had been when he had first read them.

“Which one was it? Ryder? Barkley?” There hadn’t been too many journalists invited to the event, but these two were the most likely. Dick had merely shaken his head.

“Come on, Bruce, give me some credit! I’ve been used to limelight and journalists and photographers ever since I first joined the act at three years old. If it had been one of those clowns, it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Then who was it?”

“Luthor.” Dick’s voice had been almost small enough to be barely audible, but then again, he had not known who he was talking to.

“Lex Luthor?”

“Lex Luthor,” Dick had confirmed. “He came to talk to me just before dinner, asked me how it felt to be living proof that even two people from the most different walks of life could co-exist under one roof. I swear to God, every other thing he said was a stealth insult and he didn’t even give me time to reply to anything. And I know you didn’t plan for any of this to happen, but the way we were seated, I had to spend the ninety minutes of dinner time looking at him grinning at me like he had just won the lottery.”

He _had_ noticed that. Luthor had seemed extremely pleased with himself throughout the entire evening, even though Bruce had done his best to politely shoot down any and all blossoming thoughts of collaboration between WE and LC. He had expected him to voice his displeasure in some biting way, shape or form, but in the end, he had taken Luthor’s smiling silence as a sign of life giving him a break for a change.

Had he known that said break had come at the expense of Dick, this brave, young boy who had quietly soldiered on throughout the rest of the night with a smile on his face, he would not have considered it as good a thing. He certainly wouldn’t have let Lex get away with it.

“You should have told me, Dick.”

“Oh yeah?” Dick had practically spat the words in his face. “What was I supposed to do? Come running to you like a scared little girl, crying about how Lex Luthor had been sooooo mean to be, boo-hoo!? Bruce, I may be new to this high society thing, but I’ve got enough brains in my head to know that neither one of us would have gotten out of that with our dignity and reputation intact, and I’m not going to do that to you.” And then, almost as an afterthought: “Not after all you’ve done for me.”

It had felt like a stab to the heart. _After all you’ve done for me_. What had he really done for Dick? Sure, he had gotten him out of that orphanage, out of that uncaring, over-burdened child protective system that had no place and patience for yet another mouth to feed. He had filled in the papers, he had given him a roof over his head, a bed to sleep in, food on his table and clothes on his back, enrolment in McCallum Academy, and a generous allowance, but where had he been when Dick had really needed him? Where had he been when his ward – _my son, in all but name and title_ , Bruce had realized with a pang – had truly needed him?

“We’ll keep it to two galas a year then. At least two at the manor. There are a few more in other locations which I definitely need to attend, if I want to maintain Wayne Enterprise’s involvement in the social and medical betterment of Gotham, but you do not necessarily have to join me for those, if you don’t want to.” Dick had nodded silently. Some of the tension had left his body, but it wasn’t enough. With a deep sigh, Bruce had taken a chug from the water bottle next to Dick’s feet. “And the next time something like this happens, you will give the signal and I _will_ come and help you.”

“The signal?”

“The signal,” Bruce had confirmed. “If you ever get stuck in another situation like that at a gala, run your hand along your hair like so, while tapping your fingers.” He had demonstrated the gesture with his right while taking another chug with his left. He hadn’t even realized how thirsty patrol had made him. Or maybe it had been Dick’s confession. Either one was likely. “My father taught me that a long time ago. It looks inconspicuous enough to avoid unnecessary attention, but it is unmistakable to those who know about it. I want you to make good use of it.”

“You really don’t mind?” There had been something new and strange in Dick’s voice then. Something like gratitude mingled with happiness and a dash of hope. “I mean... if it’s something your father taught you... I don’t want to bring back any bad memories and—“

“Trust me, Dick. It is fine.”

It really was. He had meant it then, and he still meant it now. He always would. As a matter of fact, he had the nagging feeling that that was the best decision he had ever made, at least as far as Dick was concerned.

***

In the end, Dick had accompanied him to many a gala, even the ones he had not necessarily needed to be invited to, right up until March 2009. It had ended when Dick had moved to Blüdhaven and for the next few months, the manor had felt more like a cold, empty mausoleum than a home for the Prince of Gotham. The annual Wayne Gala on the first day of June had been as busy and colorful as ever and yet it had seemed dull and bland in comparison.

He would never have admitted it, but he had missed Dick. He had missed the youthful energy emanating throughout the house, the cheerful laughter, and the bright smiles.

He had ended up getting at least one of those things back.

Jason had always been a very different animal from Dick. He had known it even before he had made the choice to take him in, but the thought had not truly sunk in, in its full terrifying clarity and brutal harshness, until Jason’s first two nights in the manor, one of which he had spent eyeing every shadow like a rat eyed a cat, and the other one of which he had spent screaming in terror at the ghosts that haunted his sleep.

Jason trusted no one. Jason liked _almost_ no one. Some dark, instinctive part inside of Bruce had been almost ridiculously relieved when Jason had escaped from the manor for six days, following a training accident that had clearly triggered Jason’s PTSD on December 29 th, just two days before the Wayne Foundation Gala. It had meant that he would have several months more to get Jason acclimatized to life among the top five percent, and that had definitely been a blessing, even if it had come at the expense of being worried sick about him for almost a week.

Unfortunately, it still hadn’t been enough.

Jason had hated the Wayne Gala from start to finish. He had taken the news of his mandatory presence with a dark sneer and a string of creative cursing, and had described the suit fitting as making him feel like ‘a monkey in silk pyjamas’. He had patiently sat through each and every single one of his etiquette lessons with Alfred and had diligently internalized the names, short biographies, and affiliations of every single person on the guest list and their most likely plus ones, but that had not meant that he had been looking forward to it.

His mild annoyance had blossomed into outright seething fury even before the event had started.

It was, of course, very common and practically expected for guests to be fashionably late, and so Jason had taken his chance to canvas the gardens, where the before- and after-dinner receptions would take place, as well as the ballroom with its many tables. What for had seemed like a mystery to Bruce, right up until Jason had stormed from the room in wide, angry strides, muttering what was undoubtedly more curses under his breath. By the time Bruce had finally caught up with him at the pavilion near the pond, his rage had cooled down to a simmering, but no less volatile or dangerous aggravation that had forced a cigarette into his hands.

“What did I say about smoking, Jason?”

“I don’t give a fuck what you said about smoking, Bruce,” Jason had flung back at him together with a heavy cloud of gray vapor. “Give me five minutes to be a self-destructive, bitter asshole and I promise I’ll play the dutiful, grateful son for the rest of the evening.”

That would have been the easy choice, and Bruce had had half a mind to just let him have his way. He could have done it. Spend five minutes being utterly visibly miserable and then faking peace for the rest of the evening, but that was neither healthy nor helpful. With a deep sigh, Bruce had sat down on the bench directly opposite of Jason.

“What is it that’s bothering you, Jason?”

“Do you want the list alphabetically or in order of annoyance?”

“Alphabetically.”

The look of surprise on Jason’s face had been priceless. Clearly he had not expected him to actually take that as a serious question, much less to give him a serious answer. It had taken him a handful of nervous glances around the still quiet gardens and another long drag from his cigarette, before he had finally looked at Bruce again.

“Alright, alphabetically... number one, the food.”

“The food?” Bruce had raised an eyebrow at him. He really shouldn’t have been surprised. ‘Food’ had been Jason’s priority pretty much since day one, usually followed by ‘shelter’. Still he could not see what could possibly anger him. “If you are worried about the catering not being up to par, I can assure you, Alfred would not let these people anywhere near his kitchen if he wasn’t convinced with the quality of their products.”

“Oh, fucking hell, Bruce...” The sound that had come from Jason’s throat had been somewhere between a hysterical laugh and an angry growl. “You are shooting so far past the fucking point it’s a miracle we’re still in the same fucking dimension. Ca-ter-ing. That’s your problem right there. Have you even had a look at the menu? Fucking canapés with oysters and biltong and caviar, appetizer, soup, salad, sorbet, entrée, then desert. What the fuck kind of menu is that? You call that a meal?”

“It’s the kind of menu that allows people to eat seven small courses throughout the night,” Bruce had explained. “It’s not about providing a full meal. It’s about giving your guests a chance to quell spikes of appetite.” He had paused for a second then. “It is also a good way to keep your guests reaching for the champagne and the wine. Drinking people talk more and gathering information is half the point of this gala.”

“That’s the point, huh?” There had been something wild, something almost predatory in Jason’s smile. “You blow... I don’t even want to know how many fucking thousands of dollars on caviar and oysters and specialty-beef from fucking South Africa and hundreds of gallons of champagne and wine that costs – what? – a hundred bucks per bottle and ‘the point’ is not even to feed people? It’s to get them nibble on the stuff so half of it can be thrown out when it’s all done? Because that’s what’s going to happen, Bruce. You see, they are _legally obliged_ to throw away anything that isn’t consumed within two hours. Food safety and all that fucking shit. You know what they do with the scraps, huh? They take ‘em back to their kitchens, because god knows they can’t leave the fucking stuff here where your rich ass wouldn’t know what to do with it. They are going to take it back, and then they are going to throw it out into the garbage, together with the rotten stuff and the dirty rags they used for cleaning their fucking kitchen and maybe a nearly empty bleach bottle for marinade, and some poor fucking kid who hasn’t had a single meal in two weeks is gonna crawl through that dumpster trying to find something that still looks even remotely fucking edible and you’d better pray to god he does, because food poisoning is a fucking thing that actually happens to people outside of your precious little bubble.”

Another drag from the cigarette, another scowling look, this time at the little silver serving tables strewn throughout the gardens. “I’ve been that fucking kid, Bruce. And I am not touching a fucking morsel of this shit.”

“Not even if I promise to have it delivered to the soup kitchen down at the Martha Wayne Foundation center on Bleake Island? We can make that happen, Jason,” Bruce had offered in conciliation. Jason had made a good point. He had also seemed to mull Bruce’s answer over carefully, before taking another drag.

“The one in Park Row needs it more.”

“Park Row it is.” He had retrieved his phone from his pocket then and made the call immediately. Jason had always been a ‘show, don’t tell’ person, the kind of young man who would not believe a word anyone said until he actually saw them go through with it. Bruce had been happy to see him relax, even just a little, as the deal was sealed. “There. That was my part. Now, if you truly don’t want to eat too much, just take a few bites and politely turn down seconds, but you will be expected to at least try a little bit of every course. Understood?”

“Alright...” It had been a shaky truce at best, but Bruce had been willing to take his compromises where he could get them. “Number two, the ostentatiousness of... well... everything.”

“Ostentatiousness?” Bruce had done his best to keep the slight edge of amusement out of his voice. Eleven months ago, that word would have been at least three syllables too long for Jason. Now, he would not have been surprised to find him sleeping with a dictionary under his pillow. “Define ‘everything’?”

“The food,” Jason had started out, clearly not quite done yet beating the poor, dead horse. “The fucking silver cutlery, the silk table cloths, the lights—did you see the fucking lights on the tables, Bruce? They’ve got actual fucking sapphires in those fuckers! Sure, they’re lab-grown, but that still means they cost several-hundred bucks a pop. Do you have any idea how much that fucking ballroom is worth right now? If I had had a single fucking light from one of those tables just a year go, I would have been able to afford a full meal, a fresh set of clothes, and fucking pain meds and actual sanitizer for me and every other kid between Finnigan’s and Crime Alley. Somewhere out there in the actual fucking city there’s a kid right now who’s patching up his latest cuts and bruises and broken bones from running into the wrong people at the wrong time with nothing but some dirty rags and a cheap-ass bottle of expired vinegar, and we’re gonna sit here, drinking hundred-dollar champagne from a diamond-studded glass that costs more money than that fucking kid is gonna see in a year.”

“I know, it’s not fair,” Bruce had admitted. Perhaps that was one of the many reasons why raising – or trying to raise – Jason had been so much harder than raising Dick. Jason had always had opinions about everything and everyone and he had never been afraid to voice them. Even worse, he was usually painfully right. “Unfortunately, a certain display of wealth is expected at these events, Jason. You do not like it. Neither do I, but you know what Wayne Enterprises stands for. You know of the good it has done for this city. These people who will come here tonight, who will expect and demand this display of wealth – they are essential to keeping Wayne Enterprises running. To alienate them would mean to sabotage everything Wayne Enterprises has worked for. All the half-way houses, all the shelters, all the soup kitchens and free clinics. I don’t like it any more than you do, Jason, but we need these people and that means we need to make sacrifices.”

“I know...” Jason had sounded downright heartbroken, like he couldn’t quite believe the words that had been coming from his mouth. “That doesn’t mean I can’t bitch about it.”

“ _Complain_ ,” Bruce had corrected. “They will also expect a certain register of language.”

“Lord have mercy...” Jason had taken one last drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out against the sole of his dress shoe. The scowl Bruce had given him in return had merely made him laugh. “Lighten up, Bruce! How many of these assholes do you think are going to look at the soles of my shoes?”

“None.” A quick glance at his watch had confirmed his suspicions. The time had nearly come. “How many more items on your list?”

“Only one. The people.” Now that was familiar territory. Bruce had decided to let him have his rant anyway. Jason was always more manageable once he had finished ranting. “I betcha only half of them know you half as well as they should and less than half them like you half as well as you deserve.”

For a moment, Bruce had felt his heart stop at that. Sure, it had been a backhanded compliment, but it had been a compliment. From Jason. This evening had slowly started taking a turn for the surreal.

“Mind you, you’re still getting off easy. I’m not stupid, Bruce. I know what they’ll think of _me._ It’s gonna be the entire ‘Bruce Wayne’s Project from the Projects’, ‘From Skags to Riches’, ‘In for a Penny, out for a Mansion’ kind of thing again. You can bet your ass at least one of those fuckers is going to try their damn best to get me to punch them in the face while you are busy chatting up whatever fucking oil baron or super model is coming your way that second and you know what? I’d _love_ to. Worst that can happen to _you_ is that some fat old fuck is gonna try to set you up with his trophy-wife-material daughter. _Me_... fuck, Bruce, I don’t even want to think about it.”

 “Then don’t.” Bruce had countered quickly. “Simply do as Alfred taught you: smile, acknowledge, then try to steer the conversation into another direction.”

“Easy for you to say,” Jason had scowled at him. “You’ve been born with the silver spoon in your mouth. You know how people re-direct conversations where I come from? With their fucking fists. Or a knife. Or a 38. Really depends on how much you piss them off.” When he still hadn’t answered him after a minute, Jason’s scowl had slowly turned into a frown that ended with his eyes focused on his own watch and the rest of his body slowly getting up from the bench. “Never mind. Stupid fucks will be here any minute now. I’ll try to be on my best, Bruce, but I can’t make any fucking promises. That’s what you get for dragging _me_ into this place.”

“I’m fine with that.” Jason’s disbelief had been a palpable thing. His feet had ground to a halt in an instant, his mouth had fallen open just a little. But worst of all had been the look in his eyes. Distrust. Confusion. And the anticipation of the inevitable reversal, the backtracking, the renouncing of the faith placed in him. Bruce had answered it by putting a hand on his right shoulder and even that had made him flinch. It was another thing he had quickly realized he would have to get used to. With Dick, a hug could fix everything. With Jason, it was a one-way ticket down into trauma hell. “If you do feel out of your depth, just do this...” He had demonstrated the signal then, explaining his actions as he went along. “Do this and I will come and find you.”

“Yeah, if you know where to look!” Jason had scoffed as he had shaken off Bruce’s hand and straightened out his tuxedo. “Manor’s a fucking big place, old man. Even you can’t have your eyes everywhere.”

 _Old man_. It had been almost ridiculous how good that jab had felt. It was the closest Jason had ever come to calling him ‘father’.

“I can try.”

True to Jason’s projections, the first guests had arrived only a minute later and Bruce had quickly taken point in greeting them and introducing them to Jason, who had kept true to his word in trying to be on his best behavior. Bruce had to give credit where credit was due: when Jason wanted to play the part, he could play the part. Watching him talk to the guests had been like stepping into a parallel dimension, in which his accent was pretty much non-existent, his vocabulary was smooth and refined as a marble statue, and his mouth curved into the hint of a smile whenever expected. Of course, any trained observer would have been able to tell that they had been fake smiles, never quite reaching his eyes, but for a kid who had, not even a year before, slept on a cardboard box and eaten food out of dumpsters, Jason had come remarkably far.

Bruce could not have been prouder.

The greeting speech had gone over smooth as it could have and so had the reception. Jason had gone to great lengths to ensure that he would not have to talk to anyone for more than a minute. In return, Bruce had made sure to be there when Luthor had approached him. That viper of a man had already scarred one of his boys. He would not let him get another. Jason had soon continued making his rounds, nibbling on the same canapé and the same glass of champagne for the entirety of the reception. Every once in a while, Bruce had caught him making a beeline to Alfred and even though their conversations had always been woefully short, Jason had come out of each of them looking re-energized and once again steeled for battle.

Dinner in the ball room had passed equally uneventfully. Sometime throughout the last week, Bruce had had the ingenious idea of placing Jason at the same table as Lucius and his wife, and Jason had seemed to be infinitely grateful for it, even going so far as to finish each of the platters set in front of him. He had used the piano break to escape from the room – most likely back into the gardens – for another cigarette, before returning with his teeth freshly brushed and not a hint of smoke on his breath. He had danced with the girls – a lot clumsier than Dick, but not too bad for a first timer – chatted with the boys – although not nearly as easily and extensively as Dick, but Bruce had not expected much more, given that Jason had so far been taught privately rather than in a proper class room – and then had promptly returned to making the smallest of small-talks with everyone in the room. Evading the cameras and microphones of noisy reporters seemed to have become his favorite new game, and Bruce had not been surprised when Jack Ryder had commented on his son’s persistent case of camera shyness.

“Though I suppose it is understandable,” Jack had said over a smile that was somehow still infinitely less sincere than Jason’s own fakes. “One must assume a boy in his position has not had much chance to enjoy the limelight just yet. This must all be very new and exciting, yet also daunting for him.”

“One should not assume anything, Mr. Ryder,” Bruce had explained, flashing him a smile that showed what proper feigned friendliness looked like. The truth was, he would not have been sorry to punch the man given half an excuse. “Jason is a remarkably adaptable young man.”

He had left Ryder with that and had continued on his way to the gardens, where the after-dinner reception was being held. He had been halfway through a conversation with the owner of Drake Industries and just about five minutes short of the last course – tea and coffee – when the comfortable buzz of subtle background music and the chattering of his gala guests had been suddenly interrupted by the sharp sound of Jason’s angry growl.

“Say that to my face again, you hack! I dare you!”

Up until that point, Bruce had been sure that situations like these only ever happened in fiction. He had now been proven wrong. The live piano music had stopped almost instantly, as had the chatter. A hundred heads had suddenly been turned into the direction of the fountain by the entrance to the rose garden, where Jason had towered, every muscle tensed in anticipation of a fight, his face locked into the same intimidating scowl he usually displayed before breaking a thug’s arm in three places.

“Please excuse me, Mr. Drake.”

He had made his way over to the fountain as quickly as he could, but every stride had seemed like an eternity. _Don’t do it, Jason. Wait for me. I’ll be right there. Don’t do it!_ By the time he had reached the two of them, Bruce’s brain had finally come up with the name of the man who had been sticking his microphone in front of Jason’s face. Ten months ago, the triumphant smile might have made sense, because back than Jason had been an underfed, malnourished kid whose body had not been provided with nearly enough sustenance to grow and who had consequently stood at four feet, ten inches, and weighed no more than sixty-five pounds when wet. By now, Jason had grown to a towering six feet and packed on enough muscle to toss around men twice his weight. By now, the unfortunately named Mr. Richmond’s smile had been bordering on suicidal.

“Mr. Richmond! May I enquire what’s the matter?”

“I’m not quite sure, Mr. Wayne,” the reporter – _Gotham goddamn Herald_ , Bruce had noticed to his dull surprise with a look at the microphone – had replied to him in the most innocent, cannot-hurt-a-fly voice. “I was merely asking your son whether he was happy with his life here at Wayne Manor when he suddenly chose to verbally attack me. I apologize if I have given offense.”

“I am quite certain you did not and this is almost definitely a misunderstanding,” Bruce had assured him with an easy smile and a pat on the arm, before turning to Jason. The look in his eyes had been one of pure murder. “Isn’t that correct, Jason?”

For a moment, Bruce had been sure that Jason was about to punch both of them. For a moment, he had been sure this evening was about to end in a disaster. Bruce had raised his hand slowly, brushing along the right side of his temple while tapping his fingers. A short flicker of recognition had raced across Jason’s eyes, followed by a quick slumping of his shoulders and a look of utter confusion and slight embarrassment.

“Oh... Oh, that’s what you were asking? I’m sorry, Mr. Richmond. Bruce is right. I misheard. I thought you had asked me if I enjoyed my life _before_ coming to Wayne Manor, but that would have been a silly question, of course. I apologize if I have offended you.”

“Not at all, dear boy,” the smile on his face had been one of sheer, vindicated victory. Bruce had only hoped he would never have to find out just how close to death he had come when he had started patting Jason’s shoulder to underline his point.

“Very well then,” Bruce had given them both his brightest smile. “Jason, I think Lucius wanted to talk to you. Please be so kind and go see him now. Mr. Richmond, I am so terribly sorry for this misunderstanding. Now, if you will please excuse me, I have a speech to make.”

That had been the truth and he had made the speech, although the words had barely registered in his brain. Something about his gratitude for everyone’s presence. Something about making Gotham great together. Something about enjoying tea and coffee and then having a lovely evening. His tongue had been forming the words and his eyes had wandered through the crowd, but his mind had been with Jason and that damn reporter.

Once the speech had concluded, hands had been shaken, pleasantries exchanged and only an hour later, the place had been cleared. Jason had disappeared the instant it had been appropriate to do so and Bruce had only made the slightest detour to remind Alfred to make sure that all the food was sent to Park Row’s Martha Wayne Foundation center before searching for Jason.

He had checked the attic – Jason liked high up places – and the drawing room – he also liked big windows and gorgeous views of the city – with no success, before making his way to the basement. Once there, he had heard him, even before he had seen him.

Jason had been punching the ever-loving daylights out of a sandbag, his jacket, bow tie, and shirt discarded carelessly on a nearby bench. There had been something horrifyingly familiar about finding his Robin escaping to intense workouts after a disastrous gala, and Bruce had not been able to mask his frown at the situation. Unfortunately, Jason had noticed.

“I don’t want to fucking hear it!” He had kept on punching the bag, not sparing Bruce a single glance. “Don’t you fucking DARE give me a lecture now! That son of a bitch deserves to rot in hell and to be perfectly honest, part of me wants to send you right after him so you can both enjoy making fun of my stupid ass together!”

It had taken Bruce every ounce of concentration to swallow his anger – and the immediate rejection of Jason’s accusations that came with it. Instead, he had reached for the tuxedo Jason had been wearing and dug the hidden microphone out of the Wayne crest pinned onto the left lapel. The device had come to life after a careful press of its rewind and replay buttons, with a sound unbelievably sharp in the near silence of the gym.

_“So, Jason Todd, you have been living at Wayne Manor with Mr. Bruce Wayne, the prince of Gotham himself, for almost a year now. Any thoughts on this year in paradise?”_

_“About a hundred.” Jason had answered over a slight chuckle. “Mostly that I know I got incredibly lucky and I’m very grateful for it every day of my life.”_

_“So... no tension between you and Mr. Wayne? I mean... it must be daunting... going from nothing to all of this?”_

_“It can be overwhelming sometimes,” Jason had admitted, followed by the understatement of the year. “We do have our disagreements here and there, but what family hasn’t? In the end, it’s all good. In the end, we still get along just fine.”_

_“I’m sure you do.”_

Bruce had recognized the pause for what it was even before the interview had continued. He had heard this before. The setup before the hammer came down with the shocking twist, the unbelievable revelation. Or, in this case, the disgusting insinuation.

_“It’s clear Mr. Wayne has been taking very good care of you, hasn’t he?”_

Bruce had winced at the silence that had followed. From behind the sandbag, Jason had looked at him in seething rage.

_“I... uh... well, obviously. I mean, you’ve probably seen the first pictures anyone ever got of me. Like I said, I got lucky.”_

_“And so did, Mr. Wayne. Now, I understand if you don’t want to talk about this, Jason, it’s perfectly fine, we all know this is a bit of an open wound in the family, but as you are probably aware, your older brother, Dick Grayson, left the Manor pretty suddenly fifteen months ago and has been... rather unusually tight-lipped about his reasons for departing so abruptly, and the two of you have been seen spending time together in Gotham and Blüdhaven every now and then. Is there a special kind of connection there? From one Wayne boy to the other, so to speak?”_

_Another slightly embarrassed laugh. “I’m afraid you lost me, Mr. Richmond. Dick and I, we meet up once a month to chat and exercise together. That’s about it.”_

_“So, in other words, he’s teaching you how to put the ‘play’ in ‘playboy’?”_

_“What?”_

_“Hey, no need to be coy, Jason! I’m sure Mr. Wayne appreciates your efforts.”_

_“Say that to my face again, you hack! I dare you!”_

_“Mr. Richmond!”_

He had paused the tape right then and there to look up at Jason once more. The look on his face as he had been clinging onto the sandbag for dear life was one of cold-blooded murder.

“You son of a bitch—“

“Jason—“

“First you give me some cock and bull story about how you’ll help me through this stupid gala thing if I need it and then you go and side with this bastard!? What the fuck is wrong with you, Bruce? Do you... do you understand what he was trying to imply? Do you have any fucking idea how long it took me to understand, to internalize, to _believe_ that you were not gonna come to my room one night to bend me over the fucking bed? Do you?!”

“I do, Jason.” He had been painfully aware of it ever since the Jason’s first week in Wayne Manor, when he had crept into Bruce’s room at too-damn-early in the morning, unbuttoning his pyjamas shirt with a ‘let’s just get this over with’ look on his face. The horror had been as real then as now. “Why did you not use the signal I taught you?”

“Oh, so now we’re gonna blame the victim, huh? What’s next? You gonna ask Dick and me to dress less smart so we don’t get mistaken for your little boy prostitutes anymore?”

“Enough!” He shouldn’t have yelled. In hindsight, that had been easy to see. Back then, all he had been able to see in his mind was a newspaper plastered with all the pedophilia implying headlines that had ever been written about him and Dick and Jason. “I was not trying to blame you, Jason. I was merely curious. Why didn’t you? Was it because you still do not trust me?”

Apparently, that had hit pretty close to the truth. At least if Jason’s almost hiding behind the sandbag had been anything to go by. Suddenly, his voice had been infinitely small. “I hadn’t thought about it. I... When you live on the streets of Gotham, you get pretty used to no one coming, no matter how much you cry for help.”

He had wanted to get up and hug him. God, he had wished it were as easy with him as it had been with Dick. Instead, Bruce had done his best to wash the last bits of aggression off his face and out of his voice. “I didn’t mean to betray you, Jason. I had to de-escalate the situation in a way that allowed everyone to save face. Now that that’s done, though, and now that I know the full story, the real work can begin.”

“You’re going out on patrol _now_?” Jason had sounded positively crushed. “I suppose I can’t come along. I did just ground myself didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t. And I’m not going. Not just yet.” He had settled for ‘hand on the shoulder’ instead, and thankfully Jason had not pulled away. Status quo. It was the best he had been able to hope for that night. “First, I’ll call Barbara and have her dig up every last speck of dirt she can find on Mr. Richmond. Then, I will make sure the leftover food has gotten to Park Row. And then, I will send a copy of this recording to Vicki Vale. I am going to destroy that man.”

***

‘Every last speck of dirt’ had turned out to be a mountain of yellow press filth, topped with two gigabytes of dubious pictures that had been buried deep on Mr. Richmond’s hard drive and had bordered hard on the line to child pornography. He had let Barbara forward the entire batch, plus a copy of the audio recording from Jason’s suit, straight to Vicki Vale at the Gotham Gazette. Come eight o’clock, the Gotham Herald had headlined with its scandalous story of the deep secrets surrounding Bruce Wayne and his disadvantaged, helpless ‘sons’. It had looked _especially_ good right next to the edition of the Gazette with its front line article about the thousands of skeletons hidden in the closets of various news reporters. Most importantly, Mr. Richmond and his unhealthy obsession with underage boys.

Mr. Richmond had been fired from the Gotham Herald just twenty-one minutes past eight. By the time he had gotten home, the police had been waiting for him, carrying his computer off for analysis and turning over every inch of his house for non-electronic evidence. The charges had come less than a week later. They had eventually led to a trial, a conviction and a tiny cell in federal prison. As far as Bruce had been concerned, justice had been done, and Mr. Richmond had gotten exactly what he deserved. That had only left Jason to deal with.

They had never spoken of the interview again, nor of the allegations that had risen from it, albeit briefly. If anything at all, the event had spurred Jason into taking his media evasion skills to new heights, to the point where any picture of his, any single sentence, had been guaranteed to make headlines in the press within a day, and be forgotten within a week. And Jason, at least as far as Bruce had been able to tell, had been just fine with that. Come New Year’s Eve, he had improved his acting skills enough to get through the Wayne Foundation Gala 2010 without even the hint of an incident. Of course, the very instant the last guest had left, Jason’s smile had vanished off his face and he had retreated into the gym once more to take out his frustration on a half dozen sandbags. Back then, Bruce had been wondering whether there was any chance that he would ever enjoy either of the two annual galas at the manor.

In the end, he had never gotten the chance to find out.

Jason had disappeared off the face of the earth on May 21st, twelve days before the annual Wayne Gala. Twelve days in which Bruce, Alfred, Barbara and Dick had done their best to push down the terrifying, nagging idea that Jason’s disappearance had not been his doing, but Joker’s, even though that had clearly been the most logical explanation for what had transpired that night. They had double-checked each of their crime scenes, maintained near-constant communications, doubled up on trackers, interrogated potential sources, and had – in short – spent every second that was not dedicated to pressing, open cases on their search for Jason.

Hope, however, was a hard thing to kill and it was hope that had sustained Bruce throughout those days. Hope, that maybe this was just Jason, running from the manor again, like he had done so frequently during his first year of living there.

The first death knell for said hope had been the annual gala.

“Mr. Wayne, it is a pleasure and an honor to be invited to this marvelous event once more,” Jack Drake, owner of Drake Industries, had said to him over a firm handshake and a brief exchange of smiles.

Fabricated smiling had been all he had been able to do all night. Jason’s absence from the gala had not gone unnoticed. He had only been able to hope that his explanation of Jason having gone on a ‘well-earned vacation’ and the accompanying, fake smiles would be enough to fend off the vultures for the time being.

As if the devil himself had been relaying Bruce’s thoughts straight into his head, Mr. Drake had stepped slightly to the side then. “A shame that your son cannot be here tonight. I had been hoping to introduce him to my own boy.” A boy who had apparently been just as camera shy as Jason and decided to escape from his parents’ watchful eyes, Bruce had mused over his glass of champagne as Jack Drake had turned around to find his son gone.

What neither of them had known back then was that it would take him little more than two months after that to meet Timothy Drake anyway. The strange arrangement that had eventually formed between the Bruce and Tim – only a _temporary_ replacement for _Robin_ , very definitely _not_ a _permanent_ arrangement, definitely _not_ a replacement for _Jason_ , and very definitely _not part of the family_ – had led to all kinds of strange new issues and awkward situations that Bruce would have been more than happy to deal without.

By the time New Year’s Eve and with it the Wayne Foundation Gala had come around, Tim had spent more time at Wayne Manor than at the Drake residence, and so it had taken Bruce every ounce of acting skill in his body not to raise his eyebrow even the slightest at Mr. Drake’s excited demeanor.

“At last I can let the two of you meet properly!” Jack Drake had exclaimed over his glass of champagne. “Mind you, the first time we took him to a gala here he was eleven, which I suppose was a little too young. It has taken us more than five years to convince him to come along once more.”

The eye roll Tim had given at that behind his father’s back had knocked the breath straight out of Bruce’s lungs. He had been a little shorter than Jason back then, with quite a few pounds less of muscle, but his hair was the same jet black and he was definitely of roughly the same age. Combined with the dismissive gesture, it had been far too close to comfort.

“Timothy Drake,” Tim had explained, while reaching to shake the hand Bruce had extended on sheer etiquette reflex. “It is an honor and a pleasure to meet you properly, at last.”

“A mutual feeling, Timothy,” Bruce had replied while his brain had been backtracking to the relevant year Jack Drake had mentioned. 2006. He had a vague memory of the Drakes having brought along a very shy, young boy to the event. If he recalled correctly, he had treated him the same way he usually treated frightened children: pretend that nothing was wrong and redirect until the child had calmed down. Had anyone told him that night that this skittish boy would become Robin, even if only temporarily, Bruce would have called them insane.

However, life sometimes had an awful, relentless, twisted sense of humor, and Jack Drake had apparently been its medium for this night, as he had tried to introduce the two to each other and help them familiarize. His intention had been painfully obvious – Drake Industries had long since longed for the prestige – _and financial stability_ , Bruce had thought sourly – that a cooperation with Wayne Enterprises commonly provided, and Jack Drake had clearly been trying to use his son to get a foot in the door.

Thankfully, Tim had weathered the cringe-worthily clumsy attempt with all the grace and proper posture of someone who had been raised in this high society of intrigues and backroom dealing and had merely nodded and smiled while his father had taken a shovel to dig that hole deeper. Only once Jack Drake had moved on, had Tim finally let a hint of the real Tim, the real Robin, slip into his voice.

“So... now that we finally have that weirdness behind us, any news from Barb?” He had kept his voice down deliberately, but the concern had still been easy to make out. Bruce had shaken his head in reply.

“Nothing. I will head out as soon as the last guests have left.”

“Clock is ticking, huh?” Tim had answered over a sip of champagne, before following his father to be introduced and shilled to even more people. He had spent the rest of the evening smiling and nodding. Bruce had spent the rest of the evening carefully ignoring each and every question regarding Jason that had been sent his way.

By the time they had met up at the Clock Tower, he hadn’t been sure which one of them had had the worse night. The only good thing that had come out of it was that Tim now had a legitimate excuse to spend time with Bruce Wayne, flimsy as it might have been. It was a meager silver lining if there had ever been one, but under current conditions, Bruce had been willing to take any silver lining he could get.

***

Throughout the months and years that had followed, Tim’s presence had slowly become a constant at both annual galas, much to the enjoyment and pride of Jack and Janet Drake. As strange as it had felt for Bruce, seeing a young man who was so much like Dick and Jason in so many ways that mattered and yet firmly rooted in another secure and comfortable life at the festivities, he had often wondered what Jack Drake’s reaction might have been to finding out that the reason for his son’s changed behavior was having become a masked vigilante.

As things had stood, no one had known, and the media had been happy to draw their own conclusions. Some of them had thought Bruce Wayne had finally seen the light and decided to groom a successor who would actually be fit to run WE. Some had only seen the potential for drama – a billionaire snatching a son from a millionaire, another black-haired, blue-eyed child in Bruce Wayne’s growing gallery of teenaged boys. The thought had seemed absolutely ridiculous.

Right up until the poisoning and consequent death of Janet Drake near the end of the year 2014. Jack Drake had survived the attack in Haiti, but it had left him bitter and reclusive, putting the burden of representing Drake Industries at official events entirely on Tim. It was there that Bruce had seen the first cracks in the façade, the first signs that – for all his level-headed, strategic thinking and his usual calm and collected demeanor, Tim had a side to him that was entirely neurotic and not at all healthy. He had seen it during the Wayne Foundation Gala on New Year’s Eve, but he had chosen to ignore it.

After all, Tim had been his Robin, but not his son.

As grave errors of judgment went, Bruce liked to count that among his top five.

It had been less than a month after the events of Arkham City and just past sunrise, when he had found Tim curled up by the foot of his bed in his bedroom in the manor, his face buried in a pillow hugged tightly to his chest. On The TV screen in front of him, the news banner flashed bright red.

_MULTI-MILLIONAIRE JACK DRAKE FOUND MURDERED IN HIS VILLA_

“Six thirteen,” Tim had muttered through swallowed tears. “That’s when the intruder alarm went off. Bruce, we got back here at six sharp. I should have been there... I—“

“It is not your fault.”

It had come out a lot harsher than he had meant, but Tim hadn’t seemed to notice. Not the tone, not the words. His eyes had been glued to the screen until he had forced them shut, then turned to Bruce at last.

“Bruce... what do I do now? I mean... He always wanted me to take over the company eventually, but I just had to insist on studying _teaching_ of all things, rather than paying attention to any of the business stuff. How’s that gonna help me run Drake Industries? And the funeral... I’ll have to organize the funeral. There’ll be tons of paperwork and the house and—I’m not even twenty-one yet! Can I even do all of that, legally? I mean, I’m pretty sure there’s something in DI’s business statutes that—“

“Tim...”

He had looked around the room, then back at the boy, the young man in the middle of it. Tim had spent more time here than he had had at his father’s house. This was where his bed was, his clothes, his books, his electronics, his Batman and Robin pictures and merchandise. This was his home. It had been his home for three years now. Bruce had not demanded that he spend every waking minute at the manor. As a matter of fact, he would have happily let Tim escape back to his father’s villa as soon as practice and patrol were done. Any minute not spent having to look at the constant reminder that his son, his precious, second son, was dead was a good minute, as far as Bruce had been concerned.

Yet Tim had never done so. He hadn’t escaped from the manor whenever he could. Instead, he had willingly stayed here, past the point of duty. He had carved out a little nest for himself in the room next to Jason’s and had truly made it his own. He had chosen to spend his time here, with Alfred and Bruce, rather than with his mother and father. On many occasions, it had taken Jack Drake several phone calls – and once even a personal visit – to make Tim return to his natural family, yet all it had ever taken Alfred to get him to stay a little longer was a polite invitation.

It had taken even less for him to stay with Bruce, even on his worst days. He had never pushed the subject of Jason, his disappearance, his death. He had never once complained about his own harsh training or anything else about his life at the manor. As a matter of fact, up until the kidnapping of his parents that had resulted in his mother’s death, Tim had never asked Bruce for anything.

Instead, he had given. He had given Batman the best Robin any young man could have been. He had willingly given him every waking minute of his life that was not spent on his studies, and even those had occasionally pushed onto the back burner, if there was an urgent case that needed solving. He had been an outstanding Robin. Even more importantly though – and in hindsight Bruce marveled in horror at how he had not noticed this before – Tim had been a dedicated _son_ , even if he had never been offered that title. He had been there for Batman, but more importantly, he had been there for Bruce Wayne.

It had started as early as the night of Jason’s seventeenth birthday – the night of his death. Instead of pushing his own desires, instead of insisting to be involved in the investigation of Jason’s murder, Tim had _asked_ Bruce what he had needed him to do – make sure that Barbara was safe and sound for starters, because God knew it had been bad enough his eldest son had insisted on being too stubborn for his good. He had never pressed the topic of Jason and his death in conversation, but had instead mourned him in his own way, through thoughtful conversations with Alfred and Barb, through muttered promises to the suit preserved in the glass case and through careful tending to the memorial hidden in one of the groves on the surrounding property, thus quietly leading by example in how to deal with grief.

And throughout the many public appearances they had shared in the months between that dreadful August and Jack Drake’s death, Tim had somehow, without fail, always managed to show up just in time to save him from yet another blood-sucking leech who had wanted to hear how he had been coping with his second son’s increasingly long and unexplained absence, even during the latest gala, no more than two week’s after Janet Drake’s death.

 _“You have excellent timing,”_ Bruce had stated as a matter of fact. He had known Tim would be able to sense the question underneath.

 _“Timing has nothing to do with it,”_ Tim had explained with a short laugh. _“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Bruce, but even you have your little quirks and ticks and I have been following you around long enough to know them. For starters, you always do that thing with your fingers and your hair when one of these vultures bothers you. Don’t worry though...”_ Tim had raised his glass of champagne and flashed him a bright, honest smile. One of the very few he had seen from anyone that night. _“... I can keep a secret.”_

He could and he had. And now, seated in front of the television with his eyes glassy from tears, Tim had suddenly been doing the very same thing, the same gesture, the same signal, even in spite of a total lack of all awareness. Or hair for that matter.

Yes, Tim had been an excellent Robin so far, because he had wanted to and because Bruce had asked him to. But even more importantly than that, even without Bruce’s explicit request or even intention, Tim had been an excellent son. A son who was now quietly calling for help.

The thought had made his shoulder, the knife wound Joker had given him, flare up in sharp pain, followed by the clown’s maniac laughter echoing through his skull. He had failed Jason. He might still fail himself depending on how much time was left for his sanity now that Joker’s infected blood was coursing through his veins. But he still had a chance not to fail Timothy Jackson Drake.

“Take a shower and get some sleep, Tim,” Bruce had said quietly as he had laid a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “I will let Alfred know to wake you up at two. Then we will go deal with the arrangements for the funeral. Once you have laid your father to rest, we will talk to Lucius about possible solutions for Drake Industries. We can do this, Tim. Together.”

The relief in Tim’s voice had been almost tangible. “Thank you, Bruce.”

***

When people described Gotham, there were a few words that always fell.

Cold.

Rainy.

Dark.

Dreary.

Haunting.

Dangerous.

Tonight, Gotham was none of these things to Bruce.

It was June 1st once more. Nineteen months since _Batman_ had died. Sixteen months since _Ghost_ had been born. Tonight, the air was warm with the promise of a good, long summer. Tonight, the waxing half-moon stood bright in the sky, not even a single cloud challenging its silvery light. Tonight, the city was alight with the beginning of the festival season, illuminated by a thousand lanterns and decorations and made colorful by its people, who had ditched drab raincoats for brightly colored summer clothing in celebration of the good weather. Tonight, crime was surprisingly low, with the only people to be haunted being the criminals who ran from the shadow, the Ghost of the Bat, and the viciously protective birds that had been let loose on them. Tonight the only truly dangerous things on its streets were the cry of the Black Canary and the relentless determination of the Huntress.

Because tonight, even just for a few hours, Oracle was not watching over the city. Neither were Robin or – to Bruce’s genuine surprise – the Red Hood. Perhaps that oddity, coupled with the fact that it had so far been a truly quiet night by Gotham standards, was what had eventually convinced him to interrupt his patrol, even just for a little while.

It was just half past nine when he arrived at the place he had once called home. The place he had once reduced to ashes and dust. Seeing it standing once more in all its glory still made him feel both anxious and proud. Tim and Barbara had painted a gigantic target on their backs by rebuilding the manor and moving into it, but at the same time, there was a symbolic power in the gesture that demonstrated clearly why he had chosen as his sons the very boys he _had_ chosen.

Bravery. Determination. Hope.

Of course, where he would once have been able to simply walk up to the gates and invite himself in, things had now become significantly more difficult. The automated pop-up defenses had been de-activated of course, so as not to scare any of the guests, but Barbara’s silent sensors were still active and evading them was an exercise in stubbornly ignored futility that was sure too earn him Oracle’s wrath later.

 _Let her rage_ , Bruce thought as he grappled into nearby tree line with the best view of the gardens. He deserved it and he would bear her fury in full awareness of said fact. He had no one to blame for his children’s soured relationship to him but himself. He had faked his own death and then left them to fend for themselves, ignorant of his survival, for months, at first because he had not yet had the strength and the means to return to Gotham, then because he had thought it safer. Another error of judgment, although not necessarily among his top five. Still, he did not begrudge his second son the violent confrontation he had used to call his bluff, nor did he begrudge his other children the resentment and distrust that had risen from the revelation that their father was not actually dead. He had spent months digging himself deeper into a hole. It was only realistic to think that it would take months to climb back out, particularly since his children were clearly done trusting him blindly.

If staying at a distance for now was what it would take to regain that trust, it was a price Bruce had grudgingly accepted to pay.

The first to escape from the ballroom, where the tables had been set and the congregation of Gotham’s high society had dined in splendor, was Jason, and the sight was both shocking and completely unsurprising at once.

He hadn’t expected Jason to be here. Certainly not as a guest. Certainly not dressed in a tuxedo and fine shoes rather than the red and grey he now wore most of the time, and certainly not without his helmet to cover up the scars – most importantly: the brand. Bruce couldn’t help but wonder what kind of trickery or blackmail his brothers must have employed to get him here, but he _was_ here, unmistakably, hurrying through the manor’s back door out into the vast gardens with their many hedges and benches and statues for cover.

The unsurprising part was that he hid out in the pavilion, retrieved a cigarette and lighter from his jacket, and quickly proceeded to belch clouds of bluish-grey smoke out into the air. Bruce’s brow furrowed into a thin line of worry and exasperation, but he clenched his teeth shut. Smoking was an addictive, slowly self-destructive habit at best, and utterly detrimental to their line of work, but truth was that he knew it could have been so much worse. Yes, Jason smoked. Yes, he looked like a caged rat, scanning his surroundings for immediate danger every other second, but compared to the rampaging, murderous, borderline-suicidal-in-his-fanaticism demon he had been nineteen months ago, and in consideration of just how much Bruce knew he hated being stuck at dinner galas, Jason was looking and doing great.

The first cloud of guests soon emerged from the manor, and Bruce shifted on his perch to get a better look, while Jason frowned at the end of his reprieve and stubbed his cigarette out on his shoe soles. Tim and Barbara were leading the exquisitely clad herd of wolves in sheep’s clothing with a graceful, yet assertive demeanor that left no doubt as to whom this house belonged to. Tim looked to be right at home in his tuxedo and Barbara was stunning in an amethyst purple dress could easily put any other woman at the gala to shame. There was a natural, almost eerily instinctive ease to how the two of them worked together to herd their guests into manageable clusters, little groups of three or four that were so balanced in temper, yet different enough in their motivations and affiliations that they were bound to be stuck spending the remaining half hour of the gala trading feigned compliments and thinly veiled insults back and forth amongst each other without paying the hosts any mind.

 _Because let’s be honest_ , Bruce recalled Tim saying once, _the Wayne Gala is not about Wayne Enterprises – it’s about who gets honored and graced with an invitation from the CEO. You pat these idiots on the back long enough and they will no longer care_ where _they are._

Judging from Tim’s success at thinning the crowd, even as the rest of his guests emerged from the building, his observation was still as astute and correct as it had been all those years ago.

Dick came last, ambling into the gardens with two attractive young women clinging to his side. _One of which is the daughter of crime boss Simone Castaldi_ , Bruce noted as their voices filtered through his audio receivers and the facial recognition software in his cowl retrieved the relevant data from the Batcomputer. Given that Dick’s inebriety was feigned whereas hers was not, his eldest son had been aware of the fact as well. Potentially, that was the entire point, even. Dick had always known the effect he usually had on people, and he had never been above using his charm to weasel intel out of some poor half-drank idiot. Or, as in this case, a gold-digging hyena. However, that did not mean that he couldn’t have fun while he was at it, and Bruce was relieved to see that not all of his smiles, not all of his laughter was a charade. He did not have nearly as much intel on the status of Dick’s case files as he would have wanted, but he knew Dick was easily prone to over-exhaustion. It felt good to see him relaxed and at peace for a change.

Unfortunately, no good thing lasted forever and the pleasant buzz of irrelevant chatter was soon broken by the sound of Jason’s voice, amplified through his receivers, as per the settings he used for each of his boys.

“For the fifteenth time, Miss Vale: no comment.”

Bruce shifted around to get a closer look at the scene. They were standing by the sidelines, in the half-shadow of a dimmed, ornate garden light. Vicki Vale – dressed in her finest to give the impression that she was only here for leisure, when she was actually, definitely, on the job – had procured a small voice recorder from her purse and shoved it right in front of Jason’s face. Bruce wondered if she knew how close she was to seeing the device in pieces.

“Please, Mr. Todd, you all but vanished off the face of the earth as a teenager in 2011, only to reappear as a changed man little less than six months ago. Are you really trying to tell me that nothing exciting has happened to you in those six years? What prompted you to return? Was it the revelation that your adopted father, Bruce Wayne, was secretly patrolling Gotham as the vigilante known as ‘Batman’? The people of Gotham would like to know.”

He had expected him to lash out. Jason’s fuse was growing shorter by the minute. Bruce could clearly see that. He had expected scathing remarks, followed by harsh words and ultimately, very likely if not pretty much invariably, punching or shoving, followed by a prompt departure from the manor.

Instead, Bruce watched on in shock and mild dread as Jason raised his right hand to his head, smoothing out the hair along his temple while tapping his fingers.

He remembered.

His son had remembered, only it was now too late. Bruce Wayne was a dead man. Ghost was a rumor, an uncaught, unverified myth circulating among Gotham’s criminals in the wake of Batman’s death. To reveal himself now would undo _months_ of work, not to mention reinforce the targets that were already on his children’s back. His feet were fighting a battle against his brain and he was not entirely sure who was winning.

Thankfully, the choice was taken from him.

“Miss Vale!” Dick’s voice was bright as bells with expertly faked cheer. “Such a pleasure to see you here tonight! You look stunning, as ever.”

Dick, ever the gentleman, feigned a kiss onto her gloved hand before inching even closer to Jason. _Dangerously close_ , Bruce thought as he took in the tension spreading through Jason’s back and shoulders. Anybody else in that crowd might have missed it, but he knew his boys. This was a disaster waiting to happen.

“So, what’s the story here?” Dick finally continued. “Exclusive interview with my dearest brother?”

“It would be, if he were actually talking to me.”

“Ah, classic Jason...” Dick shot his brother a toothy grin. “So exclusive he even excludes his statements.” The quick semi-hug that followed was met by a look that spelled cold-blooded murder. “Still,” Dick argued as he turned to Vicki Vale once more. “I am a little surprised to see you of all the reporters at this gala settle for a celebrity interview when you could be tackling something bigger and much more relevant.”

That had piqued her interest and within an instant, it was as if Jason had been nothing but air to her. Bruce allowed himself a tiny sigh of relief.

“Would you care to elaborate, Mr. Grayson?”

“Miss Castaldi over there...” Dick nodded slightly in the general direction of his ditched date. “... seems to be enjoying the event very much. Especially the refreshments. And as you certainly know, her father seems to have his hands pretty deep in some very important pockets.”

“And why would a young socialite with a billion dollar inheritance care about the dirty laundry of the Castaldi family?”

Dick laughed at that, his usual, bright, disarming laugh. “Young _ex-cop_ with a billion dollar inheritance, Miss Vale. Anything she says can and will be used against her.”

To Bruce’s ever-lasting relief, Vicki Vale had left it at that, ditching his sons for the promise of a much more serious story. The smile slipped off Dick’s face the second her back was turned, just as his arm slipped off Jason’s shoulder. He still had a hand on his upper arm, but even from the distance Bruce could see that the touch was light as a feather.

“You okay, Little Wing?”

“Don’t call me that in public...”

Another laugh followed, smaller, but infinitely more honest. “Alright, alright, I get it. Seriously though: are you okay, Jason?”

His eyes scanned the gardens quickly – most likely watching out for any eavesdroppers or other uninvited guests – before Jason allowed the smallest hint of a sigh to escape his mouth. “I’m fine... it’s just... I knew this was a bad idea.”

“It was not,” Dick argued. “And you’ve done great so far.”

The look of pleasant surprise on Jason’s face was almost unreal and it sent a sharp stab through Bruce’s heart. It had taken him years and several near-death experiences – both of his own and of his sons – for him to truly understand just how much some simple words of appreciation had meant to them, how deep his own, stern silence over the years had wounded them, and in hindsight he wanted to kick himself for all the damage his ignorance had caused. The only silver lining was that it was not too late yet. Not if the picture in front of him was anything to judge by.

“You know... I didn’t really expect anyone to... you know... react.” Jason’s voice had been low to begin with. By the time he was done, it was little more than a whisper. “Thanks.”

There was still a hint of a smile on Dick’s face, yet his voice, while still gentle, was far from jovial. “Jason, of course one of us was going to come over and help you. We’re family, remember? We gotta look out for each other. I’m just glad Bruce took the time to teach that trick to all of us.”

“Well...” Jason shrugged his shoulders. “I guess even a broken clock is right twice a day.”

“Jason!” Dick poked him in the arm playfully, the smile warping into a devious grin. Eventually, it faded into a slight smirk. “Alright, Mr. No-Comment-Smartass. You wanna thank me for saving you from the evils of Vale’s voice recorder? Pay it forward.” He stepped slightly to the right, taking a quick glance over his left shoulder before nodding into the general direction of Jack Ryder and a young woman in a knee-length black dress. “Ryder’s been hounding your plus-one ever since you left the ballroom. Kindly go and save her before she socks him in the face, please. I don’t want Tim’s and Barb’s first self-organized Wayne Gala to end in a bloodbath. Or a lawsuit.”

To Bruce’s ever-lasting surprise and joy, Jason’s lips slowly curved into a smile as well. “Family looking after each other, huh?” He pushed his champagne into Dick’s empty hands before heading off towards the woman in black. Bruce made a mental note to look up her face recognition shot later and dig up whatever information he could find.

For now, he was content watching Dick rejoin Tim and Barb as they prepared for the closing speech, muttering words of encouragement and promising Tim to help him herd the guests out of there as soon as possible, so they could ‘get back to business’. Barb was typing away on her phone, only to suddenly look directly at his position in the nearby tree line. There was no smile on her face, but at least she did not seem to be furious with his presence either. The text message arrived on his gauntlet interface only half a minute later.

_The automatic alarms and defenses will come back online the minute our guests are gone. I suggest next time you announce your visit and wait for my reply._

It was a definite step up from the sheer hostility and utter refusal to let him anywhere near the family that Barb had displayed since she had first found out about his survival. As much as it frustrated Bruce to effectively be told to get off what had been his own lawn once, he could take that for what it was. A cautious offering of peace. For now, it would have to suffice. For now, he was content that his children were all here. Alive. In decent health. And looking out for each other.

Like a true family.


End file.
